


Judy's Old Coffee Shop

by lizzyidai



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M, Skinny Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-26 12:20:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1688186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizzyidai/pseuds/lizzyidai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers meets a hot new waiter and starts having some strange dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to marlowe_tops for helping me with typos and talking with me about Russian naming conventions!

As far as Steve Rogers is concerned, spring is a punishment from God. Not that he’s the sprightliest of people the rest of the year but each spring, New York’s flora and his immune system make a concerted effort to turn every orifice in his head into a faucet of watery mucus. Only Judy’s Old Coffee Shop and its warm, sweet scents eases his pain though Steve doesn’t really get why or how since his doctor makes it sound like inhaling anything besides pure oxygen will turn his respiratory tract into a swamp, but whatever. He doesn’t argue with life when it decides to give him a break.

Like he does most Spring days after class, he rushes towards Judy’s as fast as his short legs and busted right knee can take him, bumping into several people on the way while praying that none of them are gardeners or have hairy pets. Having an asthma attack in public is terrible. Judy’s is farther from the lecture halls than the cafeteria but it sells the best pastries in the state. Not even being flanked by two Starbucks at each end of the street it’s on can kick it out business.

Steve smiles when sees the smiling cartoon coffee bean announcing the day’s dessert specials (cheesecake with a blueberry ribbon on Tuesdays), and rushes inside. The place with littered with hand-made arts and crafts, old quilts, oil paintings from unknown artists, and sketches of New York’s skyline from every angle. Some have been on display for decades. It’s quite an accomplishment to get something on the collection since fancy travel and art critics are always stopping by Judy’s.

Just after he closes the door to Judy’s, his sigh turns into a loud sneeze. Steve raises his arm to catch most of the gunk inside his elbow, which is why he doesn’t see the waiter coming towards him. He doesn’t actually get to see most of what happens next because _of course_ when he tries to exhale, his throat has squeezed as narrow a child’s straw.

Later, Steve will imagine it looked like a scene from a bad comedy film.

He has to sit on the floor and lean against the wall beside the entrance as the waiter rushes through a series of anxious apologies. More than once in his life, Steve has suffered such severe attacks that he passed out and once he even cracked his skull when he fell. This time isn’t going to be that bad though. The waiter isn’t even done gathering the assorted mugs he’d dropped and Steve’s already breathing out a little easier and quieter. With any luck, he’ll get enough air to apologize before the poor guy disappears into the kitchens.

Come to think of it, who the hell is he? There’s only one male waiter working at Judy’s and he’s as skinny as Steve. The new guy’s partially turned away but Steve spies his triceps contracting as he gathers thankfully intact mugs and aches for his pencils.

“Are you all right?” asks the guy while Steve thinks about which shades of bronze are light enough to get his creamy tan onto a canvas.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says as the guy straightens up. Already his breathing’s back to baseline but then the guy looks right at him and Steve’s pretty sure his heart stops and his lungs collapse. The waiter’s eyes are like . . . like—Steve isn’t a novelist so he has no words. A pool. An ocean. Really hot. Steve’s fingers itch for a sketch pad and a set of coloring pencils with every shade of blue visible to the human eye.

“Don’t worry abou—hey are you okay?” asks the guy, balancing his tray on his left arm as he bends down to reach for Steve’s shoulder.

“I’m good,” Steve chokes and hey! He’s breathing without the inhaler! Crisis averted. “Please, I’m okay.” He starts to stand just to prove it, glancing at the mess of coffee and pie he’s made on the floor.

“You sure?” asks the waiter.

“Yeah . . .” Steve makes the grave error of looking back at him and trails off, probably with his mouth hanging open. God had been in a creative mood when he crafted this guy’s face.

“Let me help you to a—”

“—no, it’s fine!” Steve says quickly, fighting a sudden urge to do jumping jacks to prove he’s all right. He’d probably pass out if he tried. “You need to clean up,” he gestures at the guy’s plaid shirt, which of course is soaked with coffee and whatever else he’d been carrying. “I’m fine.”

The guy opens his mouth but someone from the kitchens yells for “Bucky” so he scurries away with an apologetic shrug in Steve’s direction.

Grateful that a person needs to vomit a bloody lung before a busy New Yorker pays attention, Steve shuffles to his favorite corner at Judy’s. It’s an old maroon sofa by the window that everyone ignores because it’s small, low to the ground, seats only one person, and has several fading, suspicious stains in the center. Judy only keeps it because she knows Steve loves it and he’s been coming to her shop since he got his first job when he was twelve. She’s like the grandmother he never had. Well, Steve actually has a grandmother but she disowned him that one time he got a boyfriend in high school so Judy’s superior in every way.

With a hacking cough, Steve sat down and forced himself to take a deep breath, grimacing at the sound of air rushing past the crap clogging his nose. His left nostril’s swollen shut and his head’s pounding. Hopefully, he’ll be able to get some work down without dripping watery snot all over his sketch pad.

He means to start the assignment for his class on Japanese animation but ten minutes later he has three separate outlines of the waiter’s remarkable eyes. The rest of his face—Jesus fuck his _mouth_ —had been good too but his eyes makes every artistic fiber in Steve thrum. They are perfect ovals, deep set and framed with thick, dark eyelashes. Even the eyebrows, bushy and thick, serve to better frame them. Steve just knew those eyes would be fueling his procrastination for quite a while.

“Hey.”

Steve jumps a little, tries to suck in air and realizes he’s let mucus plug his nose even more, and then looks up into the very eyes he’d been sketching. He lets out a nosy breath and tries to smile.

“Are you feeling better?” asks the waiter. He’s taken off the plaid and put on a faded white wife beater. The cloth’s thin enough that the outlines of his nipples are clearly visible.

“Yes,” says Steve. _Focus on his face. Focus on his face. Focus on his face._

“Right,” says the waiter, making Steve realize that he probably looks like a staring lunatic. Again.

“I’m Bucky,” continues the waiter, gesturing at his name tag. “I’m really sorry I didn’t help you right away back there. It’s just it’s my first day and I’ve never been a waiter so I’m scared I’ll get fired before the day’s out.” He talks fast and impatiently, like someone who’s never run out of air in his life.

“Don’t worry,” says Steve. “It’s better if people don’t crowd me when I need my inhaler.”

Bucky smiles—a big smile that engages all his facial muscles and makes the sides of eyes wrinkle. He leans down and places a hot mug beside Steve’s sketch pad.

Steve takes the opportunity to admire his arm muscles again. He imagines licking the ridge between his deltoid and bicep. Bucky beams, seemingly oblivious to Steve’s perving. He thankfully doesn’t recognize his own eyes on Steve’s sketch pad, which is not all that unusual for men since most don’t wear any make up and thus rarely recognize their own individual features if they’re separated from the rest of their faces.

“Hot milk chocolate with a hint of cinnamon,” says Bucky. “Your favorite, on the house!”

Once upon a time Steve would’ve been too proud to accept pity, especially from someone who looked like he’d stumbled out of GQ cover and could probably bench press him without breaking a sweat, but he was a starving art history major eking a living in New York so he smiled and accepted Bucky’s offer. Not that his show of pragmatic humility made a difference because four hours later, he left Bucky a ridiculous tip.

* * *

That night, Steve dreams he’s flying, or rather jumping along New York’s skyline, which Steve could recognize from any angle. His legs—strong in a way they’ve only ever been in his imagination—leap from roof top to roof top. Cold wind hits his face every time he sharply changes direction and that’s surprising. Steve isn’t a fan of cold weather and very rarely dreams of it. A long jump to a roof several floors lower makes Steve’s heart pound—time to wake up or suddenly become Peter Pan—but he just rolls the moment he touches the roof like Jackie Chan in an action comedy and goes ahead to the next building.

Eventually, Steve pauses and stares down at one of those fancy office buildings with massive glass windows, for some reason trying to work out if it would possible to get in unnoticed. There are a handful of enterprising workers still in the building despite the late hour, though modern surveillance would turn infiltrating any building into a goddamned circus even if it was deserted.

Suddenly, an explosion rips through the building’s top floor.

It punches Steve right out of the dream, his ears hurting so bad that for a second he’s sure something has exploded for real outside his window. He’s halfway off his bed when he realizes he’s breathing easier than he has in years.

Steve gasps and falls back on his bed, then experiences the oddest sense of relief in his life when he inhales and only manages to breathe through his right nostril. The people in the dream building . . . well, it wasn’t real. No one’s hurt. Obviously.

Steve tries to take a deep breath again and frowns, reaching for the box of tissues he always has on his bedside table. His dreams usually danced around the same theme—wanting to escape the frail body he’d lucked into. He’d never been that scared of explosions, not even in the months following 9/11, so even for a nightmare the dream’s pretty odd. Deliberately, he doesn’t think about how vivid the experience had been, like watching a movie in IMAX instead of the vague incoherency of most nights.

When he’s awake, Steve knows he has a lot to be grateful for—he has health insurance, even if it’s the shitty student type, he’s earned a scholarship to study a subject he actually loves, he has food to eat every day, he’s living in his aunt’s rent-controlled apartment in freaking NYC and gets along with his roommate (hell, he ought to get on his knees and thank God for Sam Wilson alone). Just the fact that he’s been born in a time when he actually has a chance to make a halfway decent living with a good eye for aesthetics and photoshop alone is a miracle. Even his asthma, terrible as it is, isn’t actually life-threatening as long as he had access to his meds. And as long as his body responds to the meds . . .

He knows so many people who have it worse but deep down, Steve feels like he’s meant for . . . more. Sometimes, he feels such a strong urge to set off running, to kick a bully in the teeth, defuse a bomb, to do something wild like lift a car or jump off a plane, something. And then he usually has an asthma attack, which might be for the best. If his lungs weren’t so stubborn, Steve might’ve killed himself trying out some extreme sport or rushing into burning buildings to save kittens.

He works hard to keep his life meaningful and fulfilling despite his inability to run marathons or join the army but he supposes his subconscious isn't ready to give up on his delusions of heroism. Still, his dreams usually end with him saving the girl—sometimes boy—and there weren’t ever any vivid images of office buildings exploding. Oh well. People have nightmares sometimes.

* * *

“There’s a new waiter at Judy’s,” is the first thing out of Sam’s mouth when Steve sits down on the table he and Natasha are sharing.

“I met him,” says Steve with a nod towards Natasha. “He seemed nice.”

“Most waiters are when they’re working,” says Natasha.

“That’s a little cynical,” says Steve, taking out his sketch book. Every once in a while, inspiration struck him in the middle of conversations with his friends. “But probably true.”

“I only bring him up because I’m considering asking him out,” says Sam.

Suddenly, Steve feels like he did just before an asthma attack. Which is silly. He’s actually having a good day, as far as Spring days went.

“Oh?” prompts Natasha while Steve stares down at his sketches of Bucky’s eyes.

“Normally, the pale white boy twink is not what I go for even if he is ripped,” continues Sam, “but this guy’s mouth is like a work of pornographic art.”

“You think he goes for men?” asks Steve, proud that his voice sounds natural. Though there’s no reason why it shouldn’t. He flips his book over to a blank page and finds that his fingers are too tight for drawing.

“I don’t know,” admits Sam.

“Gaydar on the fritz?” asks Natasha. “I thought you had the best one in New York.”

“Not my fault the world went crazy while I was in Iraq,” protests Sam. “Once upon a time, there’d be no question that a man wearing skinny jeans with studded back pockets is at least a solid three on the Kinsey scale. Now he might actually be trying to pick up sensitive hipster chicks. Steve, what do you think?”

“Um,” says Steve. “He seemed nice?” Truth is Steve had been more focused on how Bucky looked, which the girls on his History of Women in Art class would be shocked to learn.

“Did he flirt with you?” Natasha asks Sam.

“He’s waiter; of course he did,” says Sam. “The question is did he want the D, or did he want a nice tip.”

“He definitely wanted a nice tip,” says Steve. “I mean he is a waiter.”

“But did he want both?” wonders Natasha.

“Hm,” says Sam, stroking his chin. “All three of us go to _Judy’s_ after Theater Appreciation this afternoon. We’ll see if he flirts more with me or Natasha.”

Steve isn’t even offended that no one raises the possibility that Bucky might flirt more with him since . . . well, Sam and Natasha are both gorgeous and he just . . . isn’t. Sure, he has a nice face but it’s attached to the human equivalent of a stick figure. He’s come to terms with it, for the most part, especially since he didn’t have that much trouble finding someone to be with in college. It was easier now to meet mature people with similar interests. Still, he isn’t likely to effortlessly find dates in coffee shops. Certainly not with someone as attractive as Bucky and definitely not if Bucky could easily score with people like Sam.

“Guys, I have to get to class,” says Steve, closing his sketch book. He’s acing Art and War but it’s always fun to chat with Fury, an old veteran who looks like he should be teaching the criminal justice people how to intimidate crooks with a single eye.

“You okay Steve?” asks Natasha, prompting Sam to look more closely at him. Now Sam would try to have a heart to heart when they both made it home tonight. If only Natasha were a little less perceptive.

“I’m having a bit of trouble with my portraits class,” deflects Steve. “Haven’t decided who I’m going to ask to be my model yet.” He waves good bye and rushes off before either of them could ask more questions.

Much to Steve’s annoyance, he spends the rest of the day obsessing about Bucky and the possibility that Sam might ask him out. By the end of his second class, he’d concocted some horrible fantasy where Bucky and Sam hit it off, get engaged, and Sam asks him to be the best man at the wedding, by which point Steve’s madly in love with his best friend’s fiancé. More than once, Steve has to make a conscious effort to keep the ridiculous matter out of his mind.

For starters, he actually does need to think about who he wants to draw for Advanced Portraits. Natasha would let him stare at her for as long as he wants, even while she goes through her stunning ballet exercises. Her slim and athletic build combined with her pouty lips, round nose, and gorgeous jawline would without a doubt get him an A. But Steve has drawn her so often since they’d met that by now he could probably do it with his eyes closed and his dominant arm tied behind his back. Sam’s only a slightly better choice even though he’s just as striking as Natasha and had a runner’s legs. Steve hasn’t known him as long as Natasha, but they’ve been living together for almost two years and Steve couldn’t keep himself for drawing the people he knew. If he wants to actually learn something, he has to challenge himself with a model he couldn’t get down on paper half-asleep.

When the original anime character he’s assigned to draw in his third class somehow ends up with Bucky’s eyes, Steve groans and rips the page out and crumbles it like it’d insulted his mother. He hasn’t been so helplessly infatuated with someone since Peggy but at least they’d had to spend hours cooped up in a tiny room together organizing their high school yearbook. He’d exchanged maybe twenty words with Bucky and in a situation where the poor guy had been contractually obligated to be polite and friendly.

Bucky _is_ attractive but they're in New York. If Steve were the type to lose his mind every time he ran into someone beautiful, he’d have suffered a seizure when Fury somehow got a bunch of Victoria’s Secret models to pose for them (in all fairness to Fury, that particular trip had resulted in an insightful look at how images of conventionally attractive women as distressed damsels had been used in army recruitment posters throughout the centuries).

* * *

Steve almost bails on Natasha and Sam. It would be easy enough to pretend he needs to go back to the apartment to use his nebulizer but . . . one, they would both assume his asthma was acting up and might insist on keeping him company while he dealt with it and two, he didn’t want to use his illness to get out of . . . well, shit he wasn’t meeting them for jury duty or a root canal. What kind of ass pretended to be sick to avoid hanging out with his best friends while checking out a hot waiter at his favorite coffee shop?

“Maybe he’s not working today,” says Steve hopefully as they sit down at _Judy’s_ , looking towards the counter. Of course his eyes meet Bucky’s as soon as he finishes saying that.

“Natasha, make sure to hit on him,” Sam says, beaming in Bucky’s direction.

“I remember why we’re here,” Natasha responds in a sing-song voice, shooting Sam an overly bright smile.

But Bucky only spares them perfunctory social smiles when he gets to their table and immediately focuses on Steve. “Are you feeling better today?”

“Yeah . . .” says Steve and his heart does that stupid skip-a-couple-of-beats thing romance novels are always going on about and fuck it, he’s fucked. It’d be one thing if he were salivating over Bucky’s bare arms (God bless tank tops emblazoned with pictures of, honest to Hell, Sid Vicious) but it’s the way that Bucky’s eyebrows relax when Steve says he’s all right that make him all light headed. Steve’s just so fucked.

“So,” beams Bucky, “hot chocolate milk with a hint of cinnamon and . . .” he turns towards Sam “a cup of coffee, black no sugar with cream on the side.”

“Super waiter reporting for duty!” Sam’s probably only half-joking because considering how busy _Judy’s_ usually is, it was very impressive that Bucky could remember their orders in such detail.

“Judy puts us all through a grueling boot camp before hiring us,” says Bucky, shuddering and smiling at the same time. “Makes the crazy guy from _Full Metal Jacket_ look like a softie.”

“I guess you that’s how you got those arms,” says Natasha with a pointed look at his bicep.

“I had to do a hundred pull-ups before she even considered hiring me,” says Bucky, flexing his left arm briefly. “You a regular too?”

“We come together all the time,” says Natasha.

“Then I need to know your favorite too,” says Bucky.

“Iced caramel latte with a hot brownie, no whipped cream,” says Natasha.

“Good choice,” beams Bucky before walking away with a mock salute at their table.

“Why does he seem so worried about you?” asks Sam as soon as Bucky’s out of earshot, all other plans forgotten.

“I bumped into the last time I was here,” answers Steve, “. . . and I had a little asthma hiccup,” he adds when Sam just stares back blankly.

“Steve!”

“It lasted less than a minute!” protests Steve.

“And what about last week when you woke up having an attack?” demands Sam. “Dr. Foster said—”

“I know what she said!” snaps Steve. He refuses to feel guilty when Sam’s face falls. “But besides taking all my meds, what else can I do?”

In January, Steve had suffered from a case of bronchitis that progressed to pneumonia and briefly landed him in the ICU. Sam has been acting like a paranoid mother hen every time Steve so much as sneezes ever since. Natasha worries too but she knows Steve despises being fussed over and unlike Sam, she’s seen him bounce back from similar episodes before.

Sam would’ve probably calmed down by now too but Steve had, in a moment of weakness and loneliness, babbled about his last follow up visit with Dr. Foster. Sam now knew that Steve’s stupid airways weren’t responding to the truckload of steroids he takes and that Dr. Foster was weighing the risks of raising the dosage even higher.

“The waiter has self-esteem issues,” interjects Natasha.

“Wait, how do you know?” Sam asks her, briefly distracted from his concern.

Steve finally registers her last comment and leans forward, curious despite himself.

“He’s been here a couple of days and already started memorizing the regulars’ favorites,” points out Natasha. “And he beams like a lighthouse whenever someone compliments him. Boy likes praise.”

“He beams like a lighthouse whenever you so much as look at him,” says Sam with a shrug. “It’s part of the waiter deal.”

“He’s also new at this and anxious about being in fired,” adds Steve. “And everyone likes praise.”

“Judy wouldn’t fire him for not having individual customers’ favorites memorized,” said Natasha. “He’s just really eager to please.”

Steve bites his lip and tells his hindbrain to calm the hell down. Natasha doesn’t mean it like _that_. Probably.

“Seems like reaching to me but all right then, Ms. Profiler,” says Sam. “Gay, straight, or bi?”

“That’s harder to read,” shrugs Natasha, “especially in this setting, where he has to be friendly and servile to everyone.”

“You know we could just ask him,” points out Steve.

“Sure,” says Natasha, “worse that could happen is he turns out to be a violent homophobe.”

Steve shrugs. She’s right but he would rather be straightforward despite the risks.

“Besides, half the fun is figuring it out,” says Sam.

The evening is a bust as far as figuring out what Bucky’s sexual orientation is but Steve doesn’t mind. While Sam tells them a funny war story, Steve gives in and draws a picture of Bucky holding a full tray, penciling in every detail he can manage—including the picture of Sid Vicious in Bucky’s tank top and the star-shaped studs in his black leather belt. On a whim, he folds it in half and puts Bucky’s tip on top of it as he’s getting ready to say goodbye to Natasha and head back to the apartment with Sam.

* * *

The city’s pollen and smog have his head pounding by the time Steve stumbles into bed later that night. He does his best to find a comfortable position for his head and even tries laying on his left in hopes opening his right nostril. It’s useless. The only way to get air in is to keep his mouth open and his throat is dry as sandpaper in about quarter of an hour. He has no choice but to get a pitcher of water, stepping as lightly as possible so Sam won’t hear and come out of his room to see if Steve needs an ambulance or something.

Wishing for a good night’s sleep would be as futile as wishing for the winning numbers in the upcoming lotto. Only thing left to do is to try and relax. He’s sure Sam has a couple of pharmacy mystery novels lying around and Netflix always delivers but Steve feels trapped in his own skin. He needs more than a distraction—he needs to feel _good_ and barring illegal substances he can’t afford and would probably land him in the ER even if he could, there’s only one way to get the job done. So he gets back under the covers, fishes his beside drawer for a bottle lube in case he decides to get adventurous, and gets to business.

By now he’s not surprised when his mind instantly supplies him with an image of Bucky smiling slyly at him from a bed. He’s wearing the tank top from earlier and a pair of skinny jeans but Steve edits the memory so that he’s got the thin wife beater from before. And a pair of loose yoga pants riding low at his hips with nothing else underneath. Briefly, Steve’s frustrated he doesn’t know all the details (how much body hair does Bucky have, does he have an innie or an outie, are there any scars or birthmarks, tattoos, etc.) and then depressed because he probably never will. He imagines telling Bucky he’s beautiful in the words a poet might use before his wank session turns into a pity party and Bucky blushes, covers his eyes with his arm, and chuckles nervously.

 _Praise-hungry and eager to please,_ Natasha had concluded at the end of the night. Steve could work with eager to please. Natasha hadn’t said shy but it was Steve’s fantasy so whatever.

He remembers how hard Bucky’s nipples had seemed under the thin fabric of the little white beater and rubs his own nipple with the pad of his thumb, letting the nail scrape the tip. His last boyfriend had squirmed whenever Steve sucked on his nipples but Steve personally doesn’t feel all that much. But there’d been that guy on Reddit who swore that with enough time, he could come just from someone playing with his nipples. Maybe Bucky was similar. Though not that intense.

Maybe rubbing Bucky’s nipples would make him spread his legs so Steve could slide between them. Steve would tell him to put his hand under his pillow and, because Bucky is _eager to please_ , he would do so without question. The little white wife beater disappears . . . no, Steve rips it off him and takes a moment to stare at Bucky’s chest. He would like to run his fingers over his skin, to press down along the indentations his muscles make. Maybe Bucky’s ticklish . . . but he would try his best to stay still if Steve told him to. If he didn’t, Steve might tie him up for real and amuse himself for hours, sucking and pulling at wherever part of Bucky struck his fancy without giving him enough stimulation for an orgasm.

Well, he’d barely even touched himself anywhere and already his cock was interested.

Given half a chance, he would start by kissing Bucky’s lips, chaste and soft until Bucky got impatient and tried to lick at him. Then he would move on to nibbling on his chin, pushing his head back to expose his neck, licking a line down to his Adam’s apple, grazing it with a hint of teeth once he got there. Bucky would let out a short, tiny whimper but he would spread his legs more and try to inch closer to Steve. And Steve would chuckle, hook an arm under his knee a push it outwards. He hasn’t done more than caress the inside of his thighs, palmed his balls and rubbed the sensitive skin just behind them, but his heart is raising and his stomach clenching thanks to the images his mind provides.

Bucky’s cock would be erect, swollen and a little wet at the tip even though he’s only barely been touched. Hasn’t actually been touched at all as far as his dick went but Steve just made him that hot. And still Steve wouldn’t dive down for Bucky’s cock right away. He’d prefer to lean down and continue licking and biting his collarbones. The motion would trap both their cocks between their bellies—Steve finally goes for his own dick at the same time he imagines reaching between them and is momentarily disappointed when he finds himself hard but solitary, as though a part of him expected he’d be able to extract Bucky’s body straight out of his fantasy.

Imaginary Bucky moans as Steve squeezes their dicks together, breath catching every time Steve rubs the head of his cock with his thumb. They’re both getting close and Steve wants to see when Bucky comes so he leans back a little bit, mind getting ready to conjure an image of Bucky right at the final moment—

—the flash lasts about as long as it takes Steve to come, but it leaves him trembling and gasping with something that doesn’t come close to satisfaction.

He sees Bucky laying on strange metal-and-leather chair, his usually big blue eyes narrowed, eyebrows furrowed, and mouth set in a thin line. He’s pale, at least three shades lighter than Bucky’s supposed to be, and there are electrodes adorning his skin from forehead to left arm—which is a sleek, futuristic metal prosthetic attached to Bucky’s shoulder by a line of brutally scarred tissue. Before Steve has made any sense of it, machines whir and Bucky gasps, all his muscles clenching defensively.

And then Steve is panting on his bed, trying to figure out how he lost control of his fantasy so quickly. And how an orgasm can be so wrapped up in guilt and shame and fear.

He reaches for clean napkins and begins wiping his belly clean. Is he developing some kind of fetish? Some weird thing for steampunk metal? Except he isn’t an awkward teenager anymore. The days of guiltily admiring prints of male underwear models before dutifully jacking off to thoughts of the cheerleading team were long behind him so if he were developing a new fetish of some sort, he’d be googling for niche porn. Besides, Bucky had been terrified in that flash; terrified and bracing himself for some serious pain. Steve doesn’t get off on causing terror and pain; doesn’t see himself liking it even in a controlled, make-believe setting with safewords and a willing partner either. So what the hell . . .

Even though his body is lighter and he’s breathing easier, Steve doubts he’ll get much sleep either way.

Wait.

Why is he breathing easier?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings at the end.

Steve must have fallen asleep at some point during the night because next thing he knows, Sam is shaking him awake.

“Steve!” he’s saying. “Stevie, come on!”

It takes longer than usual for his eyes to open and then he has close them again right away to block the sunlight sneaking past the corner of his curtains. But other than that . . .

“I’m fine,” he tells Sam.

“You sure?” asks Sam and Steve can’t even fault him for sounding so suspicious.

“Yeah,” he says without adding that for the first time since his last bout with pneumonia, his nostrils are blissfully dry. “I’m _good_.”

“You don’t sound right,” says Sam, eyebrows furrowed.

Steve just stares at him, breathing in and out and expecting his throat to close up at any moment.

“Hey, maybe you’re finally getting better!” suggests Sam, who’s probably telling himself it’s not a bad sign he was out of bed before Steve, who’s usually waiting for him with coffee and toast every morning. “Maybe the drugs are working again!”

Steve nods and forces a smile even though he knows that’s not the case. The drugs help him function but they don’t make him breathe like a normal person overnight. “You go on your run,” he says when he notices Sam’s wearing his pricey running shoes. “No really, I’m feeling better. Right?”

“All right, but promise to call me if you need anything, okay?” says Sam, inching out of Steve’s room.

“I promise,” says Steve and the moment Sam’s out the door, he gets out of bed in a daze.

His eyelids feel heavy as he goes through his morning routine, like he hasn’t gotten enough sleep. Well, he rarely gets enough sleep but going through his morning routine (the nebulizer, the steroids, the nystatin wash that wards of the constant threat of oral thrush) usually prompts him to get his shit together and do some work if only because getting up is such a hassle he might as well make it worth something. But today the ordeal lasts less than usual and Steve wants nothing more than to go back to bed when it’s all said and done. He’s just so _tired_ , like Sam woke him up in the middle of the night rather than early in the morning.

But his breathing is still light and easy.

Steve makes a conscious effort to relax his belly and then takes in as much air as he possibly can (which is a lot more than he’s expecting) and then exhales with all the force he can manage. His lungs are empty in less than a second and that’s _impossible_.

He stumbles out of the small bathroom he shares with Sam and rushes back to his room, thin legs shaking. He almost reaches for his inhaler before realizing that he’s not having an asthma attack—he’s having a good old-fashioned _panic_ attack, wondering if he’s going insane and dreading the moment his bronchi and their buddies remember they’re supposed to be making his life hell. Because they _will_ remember and things will go back to baseline. People don’t just magically recover from chronic illnesses in the middle of a jerk session turned strange.

Oh shit, _Bucky!_

If Steve’s fantasy somehow cured (why, what, _how_ ) . . . did it also hurt the poor waiter who’d done nothing besides catch Steve’s attention? His cell phone’s on his hand a second later and next thing he knows, Judy’s phone is ringing. Steve cringes and tries his best to get his breathing under control. It’s too late to hang up without worrying her, especially since it’s Saturday and barely past 7:00 AM.

“Steve?” Judy answers after three rings and Steve can picture the wispy white unibrow she “refuses to wax in her old age” bunched up with worry. “Are you all right, sweetie?”

“Gran-gran . . .” starts Steve, “I’m sorry; I must have dialed your number by mistake. I’m supposed to be meeting . . . a friend before an early class for last minute touch up of a project.”

“It’s Saturday,” points out Judy.

“I mean for my early class this . . . Tuesday,” says Steve, remembering at the last second that Judy had as much input as Sam when he was scheduling his classes this semester so the stupid lie had to be on point. “This is the only time we could meet ‘cause she’s very busy.”

“And what project is this?” asks Judy.

“Um, the one for Fury,” says Steve. “But enough about me; we should talk more about you. How’s the new waiter working out?”

“Bucky?” Suddenly, Judy sighs like schoolgirl. “He’s working out great and let me tell you, I’d felt quite the fool if he wasn’t. He needed the job just as bad as everyone else who applied but he’s got _zero_ experience. I hired him just because he smiles so pretty, to be completely honest.”

“Don’t worry Gran-gran. It was a smart business decision too,” says Steve “Like adding a new piece to the walls. Just think of all the people who’ll come just to talk to him a little.” Worst part is Steve’s not sure how much he’s exaggerating.

“It is a little like having Paul Newman wiping my tables,” says Judy. “His next shift’s this afternoon.”

“Good,” says Steve. Judy deserves to be reminded of her favorite movie start while she works. And he knows when to drop by to make sure Bucky hasn’t sprouted a metal limb.

It sounds crazier the more he thinks about it.

“Stevie, are you sure you’re ok?”

“I’m really fine,” insists Steve, mentally cringing. “Just not smart enough to use my smartphone right, I guess.”

“Yeah, you young people just can’t wrap your heads around the things,” says Judy. “Either way, I’m glad you called. Come by the shop later today. I have something important to tell you.”

“Ok, Gran-gran,” says Steve. “Don’t worry about me; I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Never better,” says Steve, breathing out with so much ease he has to pinch himself to make sure he isn't dreaming.

* * *

Steve spends the next couple of hours agonizing over every breath, though not because his trachea is threatening to narrow down to the size of a straw for once. He takes all his meds with clumsy fingers and lays on flat on his bed, certain that at any moment he’s going to start coughing up mucus.

He’s not sure how much time passes before he gets impatient and rolls over to fish for the peak flow meter he keeps on his bedside table. Steve stares at its numbers, glaring at the little colored tabs beside the relevant cut off points. He hasn’t been in the coveted green zone since January. Maybe his allergies are receding earlier than usual this year and the stupid thing will show very little improvement despite how much better he’s feeling.

Well, only one way to know for sure.

Steve takes a deep breath and brings the meter’s nozzle to his mouth. He breathes out with as much force as he can muster and is still surprised when the action leaves his lungs empty in a matter of seconds.

The meter is well into the green zone.

Steve stares at it for a full minute before putting it away. It’s mathematical, objective proof that he’s not drowning in wishful thinking. His lungs _are_ significantly better today than they were yesterday. It still doesn’t make sense.

He supposes the responsible thing to do would be to call Dr. Foster but he has no idea what to say. That he’s suddenly gotten better? Thanks to the wonders of masturbation? Aided by a fantasy turned weird at the last second? She might send him for a psych consult. Besides, there’s no guarantee that it won’t . . . wear off. There’s also no reason he can’t wait a couple of days before making a ruckus over what’s most likely a freak anomaly. Patience is a virtue and all that.

By the time he’s finished his usual breakfast of oatmeal and a banana, Steve knows that if he doesn’t do something soon, he’ll really go insane. He stalks to his room and raids his closet for the most athletic outfit he owns—old sweats he bought at the junior’s session at Walmart and a simple white t-shirt, also from the junior session of some store—then puts on a pair of old sneakers and a light sweater. Normally, he avoids Central Park like it’s a portal to hell unless he’s gone weeks without an asthma attack but it’s one of _those_ days. He once tried to enlist in the military during one of them. Another time he visited a petting zoo and discovered he’s deathly allergic to goat fur of all things. The memory reminds Steve to double check his EpiPen’s expiration date before walking out the door.

He hasn’t braved Central Park’s running routes in years. Bridle Path seems like the best choice to test the extent of his miraculous “recovery” because Sam prefers the Reservoir and Park Drive running routes and Steve would rather not run into him under the circumstances. Also Bridle Path is brimming with blooming cherry blossoms in spring and usually that turns Steve’s nose into a swollen mass on the center of his face.

Online pictures do not do Bridle Path justice. The cherry blossoms are luminous wherever the sunlight strikes them and the sky seems as blue as the ocean always is on postcards. Every cloud looks fluffy, like cotton candy that hasn’t been dyed. Steve walks around for a bit, deliberately not thinking about his breathing even as he clutches his EpiPen. If only he’d brought his sketch pad . . . Steve isn’t sure he would have focused so much in drawing people if he’d had the choice of travelling to forests, beaches, and mountains without risking constant asthma attacks. He starts making plans to return with a brand new sketch book before a jogger rushes past him and reminds him why he came in the first place.

He’s read enough on the subject to know that even without his fucked up lungs and damaged knee, he wouldn’t be able to run for very long. So he starts very slowly, barely above what his fastest walking speed is, just to see how long he can keep it up. When he doesn’t immediately have to stop to catch his breath, he speeds up a bit and holds it for about thirty seconds. Then he stops even though he could’ve kept going for longer. It’s about building endurance without burning out, all the experienced runners in the forums like to say. Steve keeps it up for about half an hour, getting slower and slower with every sprint but not losing his breath too much, and then he has to stop because his shins are burning. Which is supposed to be normal and will wear off on its own sometime in the next forty-eight hours.

But he’s breathing all right, a little fast but it’s already normalizing. He’s stopped running for a minute. Two at the most. Both of his knees feel perfectly fine.

 _One last test_ , Steve thinks grabbing a handful of fallen blossoms and crushing them between his fingers before he can lose his nerve. They’re a little bit . . . wet even though it hasn’t rained for days. _Stop stalling, Steve_ , he orders himself clenching his jaw and bringing the crushed petals to his nose.

They smell like roses that have been dipped in sugar. His lungs don’t lose their shit.

Steve wipes his fingers on his sweat pants and keeps on walking. It should be a good thing, to be suddenly free of a chain that’s been holding him back for as long as he can remember.

Except it’s crazy and too good to be true. There’s also the . . . Steve doesn’t think they’re dreams anymore. Flashes? An exploding office building and . . . Bucky, pale and with a metal arm, a scarred shoulder, and a look of pain and terror marring his face. He can’t even say why he’s so sure everything’s connected, but he _is_ and he doesn’t think it’s over.

An exploding office building in New York City would’ve disrupted the whole country so Steve’s pretty sure that didn’t actually happen anywhere other than his head. And Bucky . . .

Well, he promised to go see Judy and Bucky’s working an afternoon shift at the coffee shop.

* * *

Later that day, Steve finds Bucky is sitting on the bench right outside Judy’s, his (mercifully flesh and blood) left arm covering his eyes.

Steve drinks the sight—from the line of his stubbled jaw and the length of his extended neck, to the dark hair under his armpit, and the way his lips are slightly parted. Steve stares for so long that Bucky senses it and straightens up suddenly, looking around until he catches Steve’s eyes.

It’s too late to look away and pretend it didn’t happen so Steve walks forward and smiles tentatively. “Hi,” he says.

“Hey.”

“So . . .” Steve braves after Bucky only stares at him, eyes narrowed because the sun is shining on his face. Or, more likely, because he’s weirded out. “So you’re okay out here?”

“Yeah, it’s my break time,” says Bucky. “I like the sun.” He looks away, relaxing on the bench once more and even though he doesn’t cover his eyes, it’s probably Steve’s queue to slink away.

“Um,” starts Steve, “I’m sorry about staring at you before. I was just . . . I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“It’s fine,” says Bucky with a little smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, still not looking directly at Steve.

It’s a far cry from the enthusiastic, beaming young man who’d taken Steve’s orders in the past but maybe he’s meeting the real Bucky for the first time and it’s someone who’s quiet and a little cold. Maybe those big, pretty smiles were expertly deployed to get old ladies to hire him and charm customers into leaving him big tips. Or maybe Steve’s annoying a waiter during his break on a nice Saturday afternoon right outside his workplace, where the poor guy can’t ask him to fuck off even politely because for all Bucky knows, Steve would take it personally, raise a stink, and get him fired. Maybe Steve’s one inappropriate comment away from becoming one of the creepy perverts Natasha sometimes complains about.

“Well, I’ll leave you to your . . . sun,” Steve says, turning around so he can flee into the coffee shop. He hasn’t exited a conversation so awkwardly since he dared ask Sarah Wilkins to prom.

“Hey wait!” Bucky calls before Steve can slide into Judy’s.

Steve turns around still half-expecting to be told off for being a creepy, but Bucky’s perched over the bench with a soft smile. Not the big one he uses when he’s waiting tables, but it’s sweet and genuine and it makes him look younger and less intimidating. Steve smiles back and for a second he forgets to breathe.

“Thanks for the drawing you left last time,” says Bucky. “My little brother got a real kick out of it.”

Steve grins, feeling like he just took a shot of liquid courage. “I can draw more but I’m going to need to keep staring,” he says.

“It’s a free country,” shrugs Bucky. “Can’t tell you where to look.”

Bucky has every right to demand Steve stop leering at him so either Steve’s hallucinating or the hot new waiter is flirting with him.

“God bless America,” he says before going through _Judy's_ door because he feels silly and light even though his body and dreams are acting a little crazy.

 _Judy’s_ is filled to the brim with customers—couples cuddling in the sofas, people in suits glued to their computers, and hipsters with their noses buried in kindles. There’s even an old lady perched on Steve’s spot reading an actual book made from actual dead trees. Steve’s too charmed to be annoyed so he waves at Jimmy—Judy’s other, much skinnier and average looking male waiter—and heads to the back. Bucky’s outside having an early break for an afternoon shift, which means Judy’s preparing for a big crowd later on and doesn’t want to have to shuffle mandatory breaks for the waiters. The crew probably wouldn’t mind a helping hand in the back.

Judy only spares a second to kiss Steve’s cheek and when he walks in and then she goes on firing orders at her employees before Steve’s done registering the hint of lavender always clinging to her clothes even over scent of raw coffee beans and baking powder. Shelly, another of Judy’s long-timers, pats him on the shoulder with a relieved smile and steers him towards the counter where all the pastries are being decorated. She puts a big box of tissues next to the table and grabs an apron while Steve starts washing his hands.

“Get Bucky back in here and send Jimmy on his break,” Judy orders as Shelly steps out.

Steve doesn’t have a great passion for bakery but he wanted to learn a skill that to help Judy. Years ago she sat him down, handed him a piping cone, and ordered him to put something pretty on cupcake. The skill is nothing like drawing (it has more to do with the wrists than the fingers, for starters) but once Steve got the hang of it, putting detailed patterns and stylized faces on assorted pastries became a piece of cake. He can put a mint leaf on a chocolate cupcake in a matter of seconds. Give him half a minute and he’ll add a pattern of indentations in the icing that look like tiny veins. It’s soothing work, even more so when Steve doesn’t have to constantly pause to make sure he’s not dripping snot.

“I didn’t know you work here.” Bucky’s voice snaps him out a semi-trance.

Briefly, Steve’s afraid the flashes are making him lose time _(only three cupcakes are done so no, I’m not)_. When he looks up, Bucky’s putting on an apron.

“I just help out when it’s busy,” Steve says. His heart does the fluttery thing when Bucky gifts him with a small, sweet smile.

“Get to work kid,” Judy snaps as she mixes batter and eyes the brewing coffee pots like a general examining a map.

“Right sorry,” Bucky breathes before rushing out with a tray.

It turns out the RAs are planning to stagger groups of prospective students touring the campus so Steve text Sam that he’ll probably be late coming home. 

* * *

“You doing all right there, champ?” Judy asks Bucky after Shelly and Jimmy have said their good byes.

Bucky’s leaning on the kitchen sink and rubbing his eyes with the balls of his hands. He looks at Judy and starts a smile that dissolves into a sigh-groan sound Steve’s pretty sure will be making an appearance in his fantasies.

“I think there’s a big fake smile frozen on my mouth,” says Bucky. “Is there?”

“But you fake it so pretty,” says Judy, patting Bucky’s belly lightly. She looks even more exhausted though, thin lips pale and large bags hiding her usually big brown eyes. “Shame you’re not a girl. You’d have yourself a nice sugar daddy by now.”

Steve’s used to Judy coming out with gems like that without warning but evidently, Bucky’s not because he snorts and covers his mouth to stifle a sudden burst of laughter. The corners of his eyes are wrinkled with genuine amusement though so Steve smiles at Judy, absurdly grateful that she’s made Bucky feel better.

“That’s terrible!” snorts Bucky. “And . . . _sexist_!”

“Well, now I’m ashamed!” says Judy. “My sisters and I didn’t burn our bras so strapping young lads like yourself have to suffer an injustice like this.”

Even Steve snorts at that one. Bucky can’t contain his laughter anymore. His broad shoulders shake a little as he tries to muffle giggles behind his fist and Steve’s eyes start watering, like he’s seeing something painfully bittersweet. He’d been so terrified that he’d never see Bucky laughing again.

Again? It’s the first time he’s ever seen Bucky laughing.

“All right, go handle all the trash and start prepping things up for tomorrow,” Judy tells Bucky, who nods and hurries out the back door, shoulders still shaking with laughter.

“Oh Stevie,” Judy continues when Bucky’s footsteps have faded. She wipes her hand on her flowery apron and slides onto the chair next to Steve. “You’ve got it bad for him.”

“I think so, Gran-gran,” admits Steve. It’s a little alarming how fast it’s happening. He’s always appreciated beautiful things—people included—but even with Peggy, it took weeks before he started losing sleep over her smile and her eyes.

“I’m sure it’ll work out,” says Judy, no doubt convinced it’s just regular crush that’ll run its course without much drama and heartbreak since Steve has always handled his romantic life so well. “Now about why asked you to come . . .” She looks away.

Judy’s not one to mince words so Steve leans closer and reaches for her hand.

“Marco had a heart attack last Tuesday,” says Judy. “He died on the way to the hospital.”

Steve squeezes her hand and waits for her to dab her eyes with a handkerchief. “I’m sorry,” he tells her, getting up from his chair so he can wrap his arm around her.

“Old bastard was always ignoring doctors, saying he was as strong as bull,” Judy snorts, sniffling. “Refused to stop downing in cheeseburgers and almost never took his pressure pills.”

Empty platitudes about Marco having led a full life get stuck somewhere in Steve’s throat. He just rubs Judy’s shoulder and waits, much like she hugged him and waited for him to compose himself when he got the news of his parents dying in a car crash three years ago.

“We’re the same age you know,” continues Judy. “And my blood pressure just about as bad as his is—was.”

“You take your meds,” says Steve at once. Only because Steve threatened to stop taking _his_ meds if she didn’t take hers but it hardly mattered _why_ she took them.

“I’m getting old, Stevie,” says Judy, pulling away from his arm and gesturing at him to sit back down. “Running this shop gets harder every year and I don’t want it to go out with me. It’s my life’s work.”

“Gran-gran,” Steve starts.

“And I want to spend my last few years in peace,” she continues.

“You’re only like . . . sixty,” interjects Steve.

“I’m turning seventy-two next month,” corrects Judy gently.

“No way, we celebrated your sixty-first last year,” insists Steve. “I have pictures of the number in your cake!”

“Bah.” Judy waves a hand dismissively. “A lady always lies about her age.”

Steve sputters while she chuckles. Judy’s almost a head taller than him and her shoulders are almost as wide as Bucky’s. She’s healthy for her age, more so if she’s actually a decade older. People can live well into their nineties.

“I’m retiring, Steve,” says Judy gently. “I got enough put away to move into a nice retirement community. There’s one in Florida I like. They have a big cake baking club.”

“Well,” says Steve, belly doing back flips. “If you’re sure it’ll make you happy.” He won’t be able to afford trips to Florida often but thankfully, Judy’s quite proficient with computers and smart phones.

“And there’s something else I want to talk to you about,” adds Judy, reaching out to smooth Steve’s hair. “Before I even start, I want you to know you’re my family Stevie, and I’ll love you the same no matter what you decide . . .”

* * *

_I want to leave you the coffee shop._

When Steve decided to major in art, his father had a mild conniption. Joseph Rogers had given up turning Steve into a jock when his pediatrician warned against waiting for Steve to ever outgrow the asthma but he’d held high hopes of making him into a fancy businessman. Steve always had a great memory and his teachers always classified him as a smart kid. Except after junior high school, when Calculus became impossible. In high school, he very nearly failed an introductory economics class. In all fairness, Joseph handled it pretty well and quickly pointed out he would always have a secure job if he became a teacher. Even an art teacher, though it’d be harder.

Still, if Steve had known someone would one day leave a thriving business on his doorstep, he’d have taken some classes in business management somewhere between spending hours reading about Picasso’s influence on graffiti.

_I’ll sell if you want nothing to do with it; leave you a nice trust fund so you’ll be secure after you finish schooling, but I’ll be honest and say I’d prefer you at the helm._

“Is everything okay?” Sam asks the moment Steve walks into their apartment later that night, which means Steve’s probably walking around with a perpetually confused frown adorning his face.

“Yeah,” mumbles Steve, hoping Judy didn’t take his shock for ingratitude. He’s overwhelmed by the trust she’s displaying for him. Overwhelmed and scared.

“You sure?” asks Sam. “You look spooked man.”

“It’s . . .” It’s _not_ nothing. “I’m all right. Just need to think about it.”

“Okay,” says Sam. “I got a Physio exam next week so I’m gonna be in my room hating my life/studying all night long. Feel free to come rescue me if you want some company.”

It should be irritating, the way Sam always frames his offers of assistance as requests for help but he’s so good-natured about it that Steve just smiles and orders him to go memorize the different cell types in the lungs. Then he ends up huddled in front of the TV with hot cup of cocoa watching some random Netflix “erotic thriller” about a hardened PI investigating a killer who looks a lot like his dead sweetheart, sound almost on mute and subtitles on so he won't disturb Sam's studying.

Steve’s calves and shins throb dully, showing why expert runners insist that beginners should take a day off in between runs no matter how slow they were. Judy’s words percolate in the back of his mind as the hung over PI fake-slurs some inspiringly bad dialogue to an actress at least a decade younger. Though in all fairness, the man’s performance might be better if the volume allowed the cadence of his voice to shine through.

Behind the thoughts about Judy and his critiques of the shitty movie, worries about the sudden improvement of his health gnaw at Steve’s mind. His eyelids become heavy but he resists sleep, terrified that he’ll wake up just to spit out snot and clean his nose. Or worse, reaching for his inhaler. Steve snuggles into his blanket and sips the last of his cocoa.

The erotic thriller wastes almost a full hour before it gets to the erotic part (Steve privately gives undoubtedly struggling indie-aspiring director props for restraining himself). Hardened PI with a drinking problem gets slipped something by the sweetheart lookalike (the movie has sloppily hinted she might be the sweetheart herself, who for some reason hasn’t aged a day since Hardened PI last saw her) and a sex scene comes on, cheezy trumpet music included. Sweetheart's flimsy shirt is coming off, the camera panning on her breasts for a few seconds too long for a movie pretending it’s not soft core porn. In all fairness, they’re very nice breasts, perky and perfectly symmetrical with dusky pink nipples. She falls back on the bed and, while PI rubs his head in an obvious display of confusion, she smirks and drags him down licking her pouty lips.

Apropos to nothing, Steve’s mind is suddenly filled with images of Bucky. And his body goes from sleepily comfortable to deeply aroused, like someone’s been teasing him for hours.

Steve huffs out an alarmed breath, glances at the door to Sam’s room and glares the screen. Hardened PI is thrusting into Sweetheart, her thighs wrapped around his waist and her ankles crossed over the top curves of his flexing ass. It’s a nice ass and Steve appreciates the actor’s strength but there’s another image superimposed upon them. A tall blond man has Bucky—the one with that metal arm, Jesus _Christ_ —wrapped around him. Bucky looks nothing like the Sweetheart, his thighs are thicker and his mouth more sinful and he tries to stifle his moans with that metal fist and _fuck_.

It’s one thing to watch a vaguely pornographic film in a shared living and another to get hard while doing it. Steve gets out from under his blanket, feet clumsy and knees weak with inexplicable arousal, and stumbles into his room. Briefly, he’s grateful that Sam’s probably too engrossed in a boring textbook to come running at the sound of Steve walking about their apartment like a drunk.

He starts pulling out of his sweatpants the moment he pushes his bedroom door closed and then stumbles to his bed. Bucky’s splayed out on a flat surface now and Steve—Steve?—is pushing into him and it’s good; warm past the tight ring of muscle of his asshole and wow, way not to get him nice and ready before fucking him. It’s poor sexual etiquette even in dreams.

Bucky groans and Steve feels fingers threading through his hair and pulling and it should be scary but mostly it’s just hot. It makes him gasp out loud and moan in his head as he falls face down on his bed sheets. Steve grabs his cock, desperate to get some relief, and pulls just the way he likes. He squeezes the head of it—swollen and wet with precome already—but it’s too much. He still feels Bucky’s inner muscles contracting around him like it’s not just a fantasy and he _needs_ to come but his dream isn’t ready like he is.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, letting go of his dick and fisting his hands on his sheets. He’s grinding down on his bed like a teenager even though the extra stimulation hurts but he can’t _stop_.

“Harder come _on,_ ” he hears Bucky demanding and feels him pulling on his hair more. He clenches around Steve’s dick and somehow the bastard in the dream _doesn’t come_. Steve’s about to start sobbing.

The illusion’s getting sharper and Steve feels Bucky’s cock trapped between their bellies. His first instinct is to go for it and help Bucky along but the guy in the dream is having a nervous breakdown ‘cause it’s not right and he should have better control over himself and Bucky’s going to _hate_ him even more when the something-or-other wears off and Steve’s really gonna start crying. He rolls over so his poor cockhead doesn’t rub against his bed as he mimic’s the other guy’s thrusts and tries to keep his breathing under control. The other guy considers choking Bucky to make the sex stop and _in what planet is that a more responsible solution than sex what the fuck nightmare is he having?_

Bucky gets sick of the other guy’s frankly unsatisfying technique and rolls over on top of him. The other guy almost slips out of him and if he’s not going to deliver, it might be best for everyone. Steve sees Bucky’s face over him, hair messy and long and at least a couple of days’ worth of beard on his cheeks. He starts trying to push Bucky off—

“Steve.”

He freezes and so does the other guy in the dream. Bucky’s eyes are wide there’s only a strip of blue visible around his pupils.

“Steve, please let me,” breathes Bucky.

Steve hasn’t ever been able to deny Bucky anything for long—but Bucky’s never asked him for anything—so Steve falls back on the bed and lets him ride, hard and quick and there’s no way it’s not hurting him but the less he fights, the easier it is for Steve to get lost in the feeling. He watches Bucky’s belly clenching every time he bottoms out, moans when his thighs slam against Steve’s hipbones. Steve wants to touch him, to kiss his half-open mouth. He reaches out blindly and grabs the metal arm without meaning to.

Bucky freezes, fixes wide scared eyes on the other guy—other _Steve_?—and starts pulling away, shame cutting through even the drugs or spell or whatever he’s been compromised with. Steve should let him but there’s no way he can let Bucky go on thinking there’s a single part of him he doesn’t love. So he sits up before Bucky can crawl away and wraps is arm around his shoulders. They’re still joined together and Steve wonders if the angle is comfortable for Bucky as he starts kissing the mottled scars where the metal arm is fused into Bucky’s body.

The last thing Steve hears before his body belongs to him again is a pained whimper from Bucky.

He goes for his dick instantly and barely has to touch it before he’s coming, long and hard, and is left breathing deep and slow on his bed. The relief is so strong it takes him a minute to grimace at the mess he’s made.

 _What the fuck_ , he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's vaguely explained non-consensual sex at the end of this chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> Updates will probably happen about once a week!


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